Scent of roses and dried scabs up scabs, of sticky things, old stains and pretty-wet-tea-towells. Kitchens and earthworms, Grandmothers and small gold frogs. She is the girl who lived entirely outside, who spoke to the woodlice, playing midwife to their yellow jellied eggs, with dirty feet and tattered dress. She…

Dear sisters, As I start typing I also start counting and as I already pause my writing in order to count there are twenty-seven words and I think of what to make of this number and if these twenty-seven, now forty-four, words could have been used in a better way…